n the following afternoon, after giving Madame de Bleury strict injunctions to keep a watchful eye on the movements of mademoiselle, the baroness repaired to the Chateau de Beaujardin for the purpose of making the marquis acquainted with so much of what had recently transpired as it was desirable that he should know. This was a business requiring considerable tact and discretion. She had found little difficulty in persuading him that it was of the highest importance to break off the intimacy between his son and Marguerite, and he had readily consented to give such an amount as might induce M. de Crillon, or any one else, to marry the girl, and thus effectually save Isidore from such a mésalliance. After promising the dowry the marquis had indeed felt somewhat vexed with himself at not having asked her for a little more information as to the means by which she intended to carry out her plans and how Mademoiselle Lacroix was to be induced to agree to them. He always rather liked Marguerite, and even the high crime of endeavouring to inveigle his son and heir into a marriage so infinitely beneath his station could not quite stifle a feeling of pity for her. But it would have seemed so vacillating and so mistrustful to question Madame de Valricour's discretion that he had thought it best to let matters take their course, and this now relieved the baroness from the necessity of much troublesome explanation. She accordingly said nothing whatever about the way in which Clotilde had been entrapped and carried off, nor did she mention a word about her own proceedings at St. Sulpice, but confined herself to informing the marquis that Isidore had fled with Marguerite, and that she had left it to M. de Crillon to follow up the fugitives, and endeavour to bring Isidore to reason, and persuade him to return to Beaujardin.
The marquis was of course most indignant at so flagrant an act on the part of his son, declaring that he would disinherit him and never see him again; and Madame de Valricour returned home well satisfied with her interview, to await, though not without some anxiety, such tidings as she might receive from M. de Crillon in the course of a few days.
She had, however, scarcely left Beaujardin when some one else sought an interview with the marquis. This was Monsieur Perigord, who, after being admitted into his master's presence, began, with much agitation, by imploring him to interfere in an affair of the most terrible importance. The marquis, who was well acquainted with the excitable disposition of his old chef de cuisine, supposed that some slight had been put upon him by the inferior domestics, or perhaps even by M. Boulederouloue himself, so he kindly told the old man that he would take care to see him righted if he would only be calm and say what was the matter.
"Calm, my master!" exclaimed Perigord, throwing himself at the feet of his patron; "who could be calm when such dreadful things are happening? Ah, monsieur, it is not for my poor self that I come to you; it is to plead for my unhappy young master, who, if you do not take some steps, will fall a victim to a most horrible scheme."
"Are you mad, Perigord?" said the marquis, somewhat irritated at such an interference in his domestic affairs by a person of that kind. "What silly nonsense is this?"
"It is no silly nonsense, monsieur. If you will but deign to listen to me I can prove beyond doubt that a dreadful plot, of which you cannot be aware, threatens not only poor Monsieur Isidore's happiness, but his very life—that madame the baroness, before she came back from St. Sulpice yesterday, sent off M. de Crillon with a lettre de cachet to Nantes, whither the young marquis has gone with his bride. Ah, monsieur, those terrible lettres de cachet! You know, we all know, what they mean. Alas, alas! my poor young master! He is lost if you will not save him."
Just for a moment the marquis fancied that all this might be only an exaggeration of the simple facts which he already knew; but Madame de Valricour had said nothing to him of having been at St. Sulpice, nothing about an actual marriage, nothing about a lettre de cachet even against Marguerite, much less against his own son. He began to be troubled.
"My good Perigord," said he, "I am afraid your zeal has outrun your discretion, but I can pardon you even if your attachment to me and mine has led you into some little extravagance. The thing can, however, be soon tested. How do you know that the baroness has been at St. Sulpice? Have you anything to show that your story about my son's marriage is not a mere idle rumour? How can you know anything about the lettre de cachet that you talk of?" And as he asked the questions the marquis quite regained his usual calmness and self-possession, which had for a moment been disturbed.
Monsieur Perigord was ready with his proofs; and with his master's permission forthwith summoned Michel Greboeuf, who had come to the chateau an hour since. Not only was he able to describe his own conversation with Madame de Valricour, from which her presence at St. Sulpice and her knowledge of the marriage at once became evident, but he stated that he had met at the little village inn a strange man who over his cups had let out that he was in the employ of a M. de Crillon, and that they were looking out for a youngster of quality, who would soon find out to his cost that his master had in his pocket a little document with the signature of His Most Christian Majesty, which would provide him with a lodging for life, if even worse did not befall him.
In spite of his agitation, the marquis succeeded in commanding himself so far as to be able to question Greboeuf more than once respecting the circumstances he had narrated; but the more he questioned the more clear it became that he was telling the truth. At best, Madame de Valricour's concealment of many things that must have been within her knowledge, and which Isidore's father had the most undoubted right to know, showed that she was deceiving him. Most of all his mind dwelt on the fact that she had learned that Isidore had fled to Nantes, whereas she had professed complete ignorance as to his whereabouts. With as much composure as he could assume the marquis dismissed Greboeuf with a handsome reward, and now turning to Perigord, said, "But even if we are sure that they have gone to Nantes, what clue have we as to where they may be lodged?"
"They have gone to my brother, Jean Perigord, who keeps an inn on the Quai La Fosse called the 'Great Gun.'"
"Can your brother be trusted?" asked Monsieur de Beaujardin, somewhat anxiously.
"He is as true as steel, monseigneur," was the reply, "yet so simple that a child may cheat him—so much the worse for him, poor fellow!"
"Sit down and write to him as I shall dictate," said the marquis.
Perigord did so, and his master read over what he had written. "You have been an attached and faithful servant to me, Perigord," said the marquis, "and you have now done to me and mine a service which I shall certainly never forget," and with these words he took the old man's hand and grasped it with undisguised emotion.
"Ah, monseigneur, you are too good, too condescending to one so humble as myself," exclaimed the old chef, the tears running down his cheeks as he spoke. "But you have deigned to listen to me. Yes, you will go to him—you will save my poor young master—is it not so?"
The marquis did not answer, but Perigord knew by the look his old master gave him that he had not spoken in vain.
Great was the surprise of everybody at the chateau when, soon after these interviews, Monsieur de Beaujardin gave orders that horses should be got ready by daybreak on the following morning, as he was about to make a journey. The marchioness flew to her husband to inquire the reason of such unusual orders, but he would tell her no more than that some business called him away, and that he should be absent for a week at least. He knew that anything he might tell her would soon be wormed out of her by the baroness, which in the present case might prove most undesirable. There were, however, others at the chateau who knew their own interests too well to let Madame de Valricour remain in ignorance of what was passing. Again she went to the marquis, but he refused to see her, and even sent so strange a message to her that she augured at once that something was going wrong, though what it was she could not ascertain.
In due time the travelling equipage was at the door, but as the marquis was stepping into it he was informed that his valet, François, without whom he never went half a dozen miles away from Beaujardin, had been suddenly taken ill and could not possibly attend his master on the journey. What was to be done? Despite his usual philosophic calmness, the marquis stamped with vexation, and stood irresolute on the great steps of the chateau, undecided whether he should start without the valet or wait till he got better.
"What is the matter with the fellow, Jasmin?" said he, as the latter appeared, bringing with him the travelling cloak, in order to deposit it in the coach.
"It is a fever, monsieur," replied Jasmin, bowing, "nay, it may be worse. Heaven send it be not the small-pox."
The marquis looked aghast. "I must go, there is no help for it," said he. "Louis must attend me instead."
"I will fetch him instantly," said Jasmin; but in five minutes he returned with the intelligence that Louis was not to be found, high or low.
"Then I must go alone," exclaimed the marquis, irritably, "I cannot wait. Stay, you have nothing to do, Jasmin, you can go with me."
"Monsieur honours me," replied Jasmin, with a bow. "If monsieur will step in and proceed, I will follow without delay, and overtake the carriage in a short quarter of an hour."
So the marquis entered the vehicle, saying to himself, "This is a useful fellow—ready at a moment. I am not likely to miss François. Indeed, I may find poor Isidore's man more useful to me as matters stand."
Jasmin was as good as his word, and soon joined the equipage, which proceeded on its journey. They then travelled with as much speed as circumstances would allow, and reached Nantes on the following day just as it was growing dusk, and put up at the great hotel of the place. Immediately on their arrival, and before Jasmin had had time even to change his travelling dress and heavy riding boots, he was summoned by the marquis, who told him to repair at once to the inn kept by Jean Perigord on the Quai La Fosse, and to desire the landlord to come to him without a moment's delay at the Hotel du Roi.
The first thing which the valet did, however, was to read a letter which Monsieur de Beaujardin gave to him to hand to Perigord. It ran as follows:—
"MY GOOD BROTHER,
"The Marquis de Beaujardin, my master, is about to proceed to Nantes on some business in which, as I am informed, you will be able to assist him. Render him all the aid in your power, and do not hesitate to give him any information you can, as the affair is one deeply concerning the honour and welfare of the whole family, to which, as you know, I have been so long and so devotedly attached.
"Always your loving Brother,
"ACHILLE PERIGORD."
Having made himself master of the contents of this letter, Jasmin wrapped himself in his cloak, for the wind was keen and the weather looked threatening, and sallied forth from the hotel. But he did not go straight to Jean Perigord's. On the way he stopped at another inn called the Hotel Turenne, where he inquired whether a certain M. de Crillon had yet arrived there. He was answered in the affirmative, and was presently shown into a saloon, where he found de Crillon, to whom he forthwith communicated the circumstances which had brought him thither with the marquis, showing him at the same time the letter from old Achille. The conference was short, and M. de Crillon concluded it by saying, "I suspected they would go to Maitre Jean's, and try to get away in some vessel sailing from this port, and my men are already on the look-out near the house. If, with the aid of this note, you can bring them here, or entice them on to the quay, the business is done." With these instructions, Jasmin once more set out.
It had now become dark, and he found the quay a very long one. He had traversed nearly the whole length of it without coming upon the "Great Gun," when he saw a sailor lounging under one of the trees that lined the road, and asked him if the inn was anywhere near.
"What! Jean Perigord's house?" answered the man. "O yes; I thought every one knew the 'Great Gun.' Come along, I will show it to you."
In a couple of minutes they reached the house. It was still open; a lamp was burning over the door, and there stood Jean Perigord himself, apparently looking out for some one. The sailor touched his hat and asked Jasmin for a trifle; the latter told the landlord to give the man something to drink, and they entered the house together. The man then tossed off his glass and left them alone.
"I will not ask if you are Jean Perigord," said Jasmin, as they entered the little parlour, "you are so like our honest old Achille. I have come to you on a delicate and most important matter; but first of all read this," and he handed to the innkeeper the letter from his brother, which he read with evident astonishment and perturbation.
"Now listen to me," continued Jasmin. "There is no time for beating round the bush. What about two young persons sent to you by your cousin Michel Greboeuf, of St. Sulpice?"
"Mercy on us!" exclaimed Jean, in great agitation. "Do you know that they are here?"
"Of course," replied Jasmin. "When did they come?"
"Early this afternoon," said the innkeeper; "but I was not to say a word about it."
"Are they within?"
"She is; but he went out a couple of hours ago and hired a boat to take him to one of the vessels lying in the river. Ah! I thought, in spite of their being dressed like common country folk, they must be something more than they seemed. But," added he, abruptly, "I don't know why I should tell you all this."
"Nay, my good fellow," rejoined Jasmin, in his blandest way, "surely the word of our good old Achille is enough."
Jean glanced hastily at the letter as if to reassure himself, and then a thought seemed suddenly to strike him.
"Stay. Mercy on us!" said he, stepping back a little, "is it possible? Yes, I see—of course you are monseigneur the marquis. How could I be so stupid? Ah, monsieur," he added, "I can only be too glad to——"
"Hush!" cried Jasmin, interrupting him. "We are watched. Do you not see?"
And, sure enough, following the direction of Jasmin's eyes, Jean did see the man who had brought his visitor there emerge noiselessly from a dark corner near the open door and steal away into the street.
"Quick," said Jasmin, "go to her at once. Tell her all is well, but that she must come instantly to the Hotel Turenne."
"But she will never come without him," cried Jean, pleadingly.
"Tell her that you will bring her husband to her the moment he returns; but that if she delays, he will be lost. I will go on first and see that the way is clear."
With these words Monsieur Jasmin drew his cloak about him and disappeared. For a few moments poor Jean stood utterly bewildered, but the thought of the danger aroused him, and he hurried up-stairs to the chamber where Marguerite was sitting, anxiously awaiting her husband's return.
In a few hasty words, and not a little excited by his mission, the landlord bade her get ready and follow him at once, adding that a good friend had come to aid them, and that she and her husband would soon be safe. At first she hesitated, but on his urgent assurance that she had nothing to fear, she forthwith put on her hood and accompanied him down the stairs, and they quitted the house.
They had proceeded about a hundred yards, and had just reached a part of the quay where some stone steps led down to a landing-place, when Jean heard footsteps behind him. He stopped and turned round, and was instantly seized and thrown to the ground, his assailant whispering to him as he held him down with a grasp like that of a vice, "Keep quiet, good Master Jean. This business does not concern you, and you shall be set free in a minute or two."
Jean Perigord had too brave a heart for that, however, and he struggled to get loose. He succeeded in raising himself a little, but it was only to hear a shriek, and to see the unhappy girl borne past him by two men, who carried her down the steps and placed her in a boat that lay at the landing-place. The next moment he saw two other men carrying past him what seemed to be the figure of a man struggling in the folds of a cloak that had apparently been thrown over him. The muffled form was thrown into the same boat, which was then instantly shoved off.
"Now, my good Jean," said the man, as he let go his hold of the innkeeper, "just go home and keep your tongue quiet—it will be best for you. I shall have an eye on you, and if you blab about what you have seen, why you will stand a good chance of sharing the same fate as your friends yonder. They have been arrested under the king's lettre de cachet, and if you meddle in the matter you are a dead man."
Half an hour later Monsieur de Crillon received the report of his chief employé, which was to the effect that the young marquis had been overheard whilst discovering himself to Jean Perigord, and that he and the young female who had previously reached the "Great Gun" had been seized and conveyed to the prison of Bouffay, where they awaited Monsieur de Crillon's further orders. "Let the horses be got ready and brought round at once," was the reply, and his follower retired to give directions accordingly.
In the meanwhile Jean Perigord had returned to his house in dire dismay at what had taken place, and his anxiety was heightened, if that were possible, by the reflection that he had very likely been made the means of decoying poor Marguerite into a trap. He could not help fearing, moreover, that the figure he had seen carried past him and thrown into the boat had been that of the poor young fellow her husband, who had doubtless been captured on the quay as he was landing. Without a thought about closing his house as usual, he threw himself into a chair and groaned aloud. What was he to do? Now he resolved to seek out the Marquis de Beaujardin at the Hotel Turenne; now again he shrank from such a step as he remembered that terrible injunction to keep silence about the matter. He was, however, suddenly aroused from his rueful reflections by the sound of hasty footsteps in the passage, and had scarcely had time to rise from his chair when there stood before him a young man, in the garb of a peasant indeed, but whose face and figure, to say nothing of his language and manner, were little in accordance with his homely apparel.
"You will be glad to hear, honest Jean," said he, "that I have managed it all, and have succeeded in taking passages in a ship that sails to-morrow morning. I must go and bring down my poor young wife at once, as I have kept my boat waiting to take us off to the ship. I can never repay you for your kindness, but——" Here he stopped short, and then added in some surprise: "How now, my good friend! you look as if you had seen a ghost."
That was, indeed, just what Jean himself was thinking at that moment. "Heaven have mercy on us!" he ejaculated. "Is it you? It cannot be."
"Are you ill, or crazy, or else what is the matter?" cried Isidore. "Has anything befallen her?" he added, as Jean stood there before him wringing his hands. Isidore was about to rush up-stairs, but the landlord grasped his arm and stopped him, and then in hurried and broken sentences he related to him what had occurred during his absence.
Incoherent as the narrative was, it sufficed to tell Isidore only too plainly what had happened; yet he could at first scarcely realise it all. Trembling with agitation, he pressed the innkeeper with question after question till nothing more remained to be told. "What could I do," cried Jean, despairingly, "when monseigneur the marquis himself—if, indeed, it was he—told me you would be all safe if I took her at once to the Hotel Turenne?"
"The marquis himself!" cried Isidore. "Are you mad? I will not believe it. What was he like—how old?"
"Perhaps a little older than yourself. I supposed, of course, that it was the young marquis, of whom my brother has often spoken to me."
"The young marquis! There is some horrible treachery in all this; but I will find it out, cost what it will. At the Hotel Turenne, did you say?"
Jean nodded an affirmative, and before he could add another word Isidore had rushed out of the house.
Dark as it was, he managed to find his way, after many inquiries, to the Hotel Turenne. As he reached the door two mounted men with a led horse came up; the master of the house and two or three of the hotel servants with lights were standing in the hall.
"Is the Marquis de Beaujardin staying here?" asked Isidore, abruptly.
"No, he is not," answered, the hotel-keeper; "but he came to the Hotel du Roi this afternoon; you will find him there. Stand aside."
At this moment a gentleman in a riding suit, and booted and spurred, passed through the hall and descended the steps, accompanied by the landlord, who officiously held the stirrup as he mounted.
"Stay," said he, bending forward and addressing the hotel-keeper in an undertone, "should a person named Jasmin come again, you will tell him that I am obliged by his assistance, which has been quite successful. Should he not return, send this message to him to-morrow at the Hotel du Roi; he is in the suite of the Marquis de Beaujardin." With these words the speaker put spurs to his horse and galloped off, followed by his attendants.
Isidore had not seen the speaker's face indeed, but he knew that voice only too well. What! had his own father then come there in league with de Crillon to hunt her down so relentlessly? Had they even employed his own discharged menial to personate him and entrap her? With his brows knit and his teeth set close, he bent his steps in the direction of the Hotel du Roi, but he had not gone far before he stopped; then, after considering for a minute or two, he turned and made his way almost mechanically to the Quai La Fosse.
The landlord was standing at the door, peering anxiously out into the darkness, but Isidore passed him without notice, and hurrying by into the little parlour threw himself into a chair; there, burying his face in his hands, he gave way for the first time, and broke into a passionate outburst of grief and despair.
Perigord stood near him for a while, not daring to intrude on his distress; but at last he approached him timidly, and laying his hand on his shoulder tried to calm and soothe him. Then, growing bolder, he began to implore him at least to try and save his own life. But Isidore seemed not to heed him. "His own life! What was life to him now—now that he had lost all that seemed to him to make life worth preserving?"
"For the poor young creature's sake," continued Jean, the tears running down his cheeks, "save yourself. Perhaps you may yet find some one; surely there must be some one who may have the power to help you to try and rescue her." As he said this, poor Jean shuddered at the thought of those terrible words about the lettre de cachet.
Perhaps the innkeeper's words reminded Isidore that his uncle, the Baron de Valricour, or possibly the Marquis de Montcalm himself, might yet do something for him, if indeed anything could be done. At all events it was useless to hope for aid from anyone in France. Somewhat to the honest innkeeper's surprise, he suddenly arose, and speaking with a calmness and dignity which quite awed the would-be comforter, he said, "You are right, good friend. I take shame to myself for showing such weakness. Yes, there are those who may still help me, if it be God's will; and if they can, I know they will not shrink from doing so. For the kindness which would have sheltered and assisted us, I can never repay you, but I can never forget it. Farewell! It is best for you that you should not even know my name. The boat that is waiting yonder shall take me back to the ship alone," he added, with a groan. "Ah, if ever I visit France again——"
He could say no more, but he grasped honest Jean's hand and left the house. The landlord hurried after him, but it was only to see him descend the steps of the quay and enter the boat, which, in a minute or two, was lost in the darkness.
he Canadian summer has set in, coming upon the land, not gradually and imperceptibly as in many other climates, where a mild and genial spring-time intervenes between the seasons of extreme cold and heat, but suddenly, and, as it were, almost at a bound. But two or three short weeks ago the face of the country was still all white with the snows of many a long month, and the great St. Lawrence was bridged over from shore to shore with one broad expanse of solid ice of almost incredible thickness. Anon the vast mass broke up, with explosions loud as the roar of artillery, into countless rugged fields and hummocks, which, after floating up and down awhile on the bosom of the mighty tide, drifted away at last out seaward, to return no more. It is a trite trick of the mimic stage to make old Father Winter suddenly cast aside his hoary garments and stand forth at once in bright array bedecked with fruits and flowers; here in very deed, and on the grandest scale, Nature seems with one touch to sweep away the wintry snow, and with another to clothe the landscape with profuse and luxuriant vegetation. How strange to see the humming-bird dart like a streak of golden light among the fragrant shrubs; stranger still to see the butterfly, attracted by the lines of some stray wild flower, flutter away again, repelled by the chilling neighbourhood of the last remnant of a snow-drift lying in a sheltered corner, where no sunbeam ever finds its way.
It is a pleasant evening, and on a little wooded knoll, on the summit of a cliff that overhangs the St. Lawrence two or three miles above Quebec, there is a little group of persons, all of whom we have seen before. One of them is Boulanger, and in the man now seated beside him, notwithstanding his mean attire and his careworn look, the honest woodman had been at no loss to recognise his visitor of the previous autumn, Isidore de Beaujardin. The latter had been welcomed with a warmth and sincerity that touched him deeply, and although he had not originally thought of saying anything about his troubles to persons in so humble a condition, some mistaken suppositions on their part as to the cause of his reappearing amongst them in so unexpected a plight had led him to tell them that he had been obliged to fly from France. Even his own family had taken part against him he said, adding that he had not a friend in the world to whom he could turn for help or comfort. As he spoke this in the bitterness of his heart, poor Bibi, who stood by, was melted to tears, and the sturdy woodsman looked half disposed to follow her example; whilst Amoahmeh, who sat a little way apart, yet near enough to catch every word that fell from their visitor's lips, turned away, and bent her head over the work on which she was engaged.
"But, monsieur," said Boulanger at length, "there is surely your uncle, the Baron de Valricour, whom I remember well, and who is the most kind and generous of gentlemen one could possibly desire to have for one's friend—surely he can help you."
"It was indeed for that very reason that in my despair I resolved to come out here and secure his assistance, not for my wretched self, but for one who—who——" He paused awhile as his emotion overcame him; then he continued: "My evil fate still pursues me. I learned this afternoon at Quebec that M. de Valricour has just gone back to France on leave and will not return for some months. But why should I trouble your kind hearts with my sorrows? You would never have heard of them, indeed, but that I could not find myself within a couple of miles of you without sparing an hour or so to learn how it fared with my old comrade of the woods. And to think of finding Amoahmeh here too! I should scarce have known you again, my good girl," said he, reaching out his hand to her. "'Tis not a year since I left you a girl, and I find you quite a woman." The words were natural enough, for the contrast in Isidore's case between the once brilliant and handsome aide-de-camp of General Montcalm and the miserable-looking peasant of to-day was scarcely greater than that between the half-starved idiotic Indian girl of a year ago and the comely maiden, dressed in the neat costume of a Canadian country girl, who, rising from her seat, now stepped towards him, and taking the extended hand in both of hers, pressed it silently to her lips.
"Yes," said Boulanger smiling, "and I must tell you, monsieur, that it is not outwardly only that Amoahmeh has changed for the better. She has become a good Christian like the rest of us, and she proves it too, by helping in one way or another all whom she happens to come across, no matter at what cost to herself. As for outside appearance, I suppose monsieur knows as well as we do how that has been managed."
"I!" replied Isidore with some surprise. "How should I know?"
"Oh, I supposed you knew of course that monseigneur the Marquis your father sent her a letter some months ago, which we got through the subintendant at Quebec, enclosing a hundred louis for her, and thanking her from himself and Madame the Marquise for the way in which she saved your life at Fort William Henry. Ah, it was a beautiful letter indeed, so kind and condescending. We had not a dry eye among us when we had read it. We all agreed that monseigneur must be one of the best men in all the world, so generous and tender-hearted too."
The woodman stopped, for he could not but notice the pained expression that came over Isidore's face, and betrayed the conflict of emotions going on within him.
"Yes, I too thought so once, but that is over," said Isidore. "Would that he could have shown himself as tender-hearted and generous to poor Marguerite, if not to his own flesh and blood," he added bitterly, half-speaking to himself.
Boulanger hastened to change a subject evidently so painful to his visitor.
"And what may monsieur intend to do now, if it is not an impertinent question?" said he. "Surely you could rejoin the army here. Montcalm, I fancy, would be glad enough to help one who has already served under him so bravely."
"No, honest friend, there is no hope for me in that quarter. Montcalm could not help me even if he would. It would answer no good purpose were I to tell you why, and it is better for you that you should not know. I am no longer Colonel de Beaujardin, but a nameless wanderer. If you speak of me it must only be as Claude the poor French peasant; but it were best not to do so at all, or you may get yourself, and me too, into trouble. Yet something I must do, and I have resolved to go off to Cape Breton, where, as I have learned at Quebec, the English are about making an attack on Louisburg."
"On Louisburg!" exclaimed the Canadian. "Why, I should have thought they had enough of that last year."
"At all events," replied Isidore, "they will find the task no easy one with such a fellow as our brave Drucour in command of the place; but he will need all his skill and bravery too, for I heard before I left France of the great preparations the English have been making to ensure success this time. Some months ago their Admiral Boscawen sailed from England, and is now in command of a score of line of battle ships, and nearly as many frigates; they say at Quebec that his fleet has left Halifax, with more than a hundred smaller vessels, carrying a force of twelve thousand men to attack Louisburg. The English have fetched home a general named Amherst from Germany, where they have been helping our enemy, King Frederick of Prussia, and have given him the command, and there is also a Colonel Wolfe amongst their officers, who, they say, has already done good service. If they are as slow about making the attack as they have been in coming from England, they'll not take Louisburg this year. They have got a Minister now, however, who hates us thoroughly, and will give us trouble enough. I daresay you have heard of this Mister Pitt I speak of."
"O yes, I have heard of him sure enough, monsieur, but it don't matter much about him. I suppose they have not got any generals like ours, and when it comes to fighting, let them come, say I."
"You seem quite to forget, my friend, that these English once had a general called Marlborough," said Isidore.
"O yes, they once had," retorted Boulanger; "but as the famous old song says—
'Monsieur Malbrouk est mort,
Est mort et enterré.'
Malbrouk is dead and buried at all events, and will not frighten us any more. But, seriously, monsieur, I suppose from what you say that you are thinking of going to help our brave fellows at Louisburg?"
"Just so," answered Isidore. "It matters little where I go just now—it is better to die like a soldier than live on thus; so I will now say adieu, and go back to Quebec, whence I must make my way down to Louisburg as I best may."
"At least, however," exclaimed the Canadian, "you must let us see first what we can do to fit your honour out a little better. Come, Bibi, let us have supper, and I will try what I can rummage out that may be of use to monsieur. If I can do nothing else, I can at all events furnish him with a rifle and powder-horn."
Then without waiting for the thanks which his guest was about to offer, the sturdy woodsman hurried away with his wife to carry his good intentions into effect.
Amoahmeh, who had remained at a little distance during this colloquy, now approached Isidore, as if about to speak to him, and as she seemed to hesitate, he gave her a smile of encouragement.
"And the dear young lady who was so kind to me?" said she, inquiringly. "Where is she, monsieur—is she well?"
The smile was gone at once. Isidore's countenance fell, and he buried his face in his hands and groaned in the bitterness of his heart. Amoahmeh shrank lack, and clasping her hands together exclaimed, "Alas! what have I said? I did not—I could not know."
There was a painful silence for a minute or two, then laying her hand timidly on Isidore's arm she said, "Oh, forgive me if I have distressed you—you to whom I owe so much—you who first told the poor lonely Indian girl where it is that we may surely hope to see again those whom we loved, and whom God has taken from us. Ah, it is hard to hear; but monsieur knows that if there is one angel less on earth, there is one more in heaven."
"Girl, girl!" exclaimed Isidore, raising his head, "you do not know what you are saying, or how you torture me. She is not dead—at least, for aught I know—but she is dead to me—lost for ever!"
Then as he marked the distressed and bewildered look with which she listened to him, a look so like the old vacant stare that he remembered too well, a strange fear came over him.
"My good girl," he continued in a soothing tone, "I grieve that I have frightened you, but my sorrow overcame me for the moment. Be comforted—she is yet alive, and, with Heaven's blessing, I dare still hope that some day I may find her again, and that we may yet be happy."
Touched by the deep sigh of relief with which Amoahmeh received these words, and by the tears that followed it, Isidore could not choose but tell her something of what had befallen Marguerite. Debarred as he had latterly been from consolation or sympathy, and without a friend to speak a single word of comfort or encouragement to him, it is scarcely to be wondered at that he should open his heart to any one who would pour balm upon his wounded spirit. But sorrow had already borne some fruit with him, and as he briefly told the story of the misfortunes that had befallen him, no word that savoured of anger or of vengeful feeling passed his lips, and though he could not but speak of grievous wrongs done both to her and to him, he forbore to use hard words against, or even to name, those who had brought this misery upon them.
"See," said he at last, with a melancholy smile, "I have been led, I scarce know how, to tell you a long story about myself; let us now talk of other things."
"But, monsieur," replied Amoahmeh, who had listened to every word with intense interest, "you have scarcely once spoken of monsieur your father. How could he suffer this? He is a great noble in France, surely he could have saved you? Do I not know him to be so good even to a poor stranger, that it is not possible he would let his own son, and a noble one as you are, to become the victim of such a dreadful thing as this lettre de cachet which you tell me of? Did you not see him at the last and tell him what had happened to her? Surely his heart must have melted if he had known all you tell me now."
Isidore remained silent for a little while. "To speak the truth," said he at length, "it is just this that oftentimes adds to my sorrow. I do feel that I ought at the very last to have made one more appeal to him; but, after all, what could it have availed me? He must have known it all, else why come there to hunt us down? Heaven forgive me if I have wronged him. At all events it is too late now. Let us say no more about it. Here is our good Boulanger come to call us in. God be thanked that I have found at least this ray of comfort in my trouble."
Seldom if ever had that humble dwelling seen so abundant a meal as that which Bibi had managed to improvise for their young guest, and when it was over the honest Canadian produced the promised rifle and accoutrements, and his wife and Amoahmeh did their best to add to them such trifles as might be useful in a campaign. Then, after many a hearty grasp of the hand and many a warm expression of his hope that they might meet again in happier times, Isidore bade his kind friends adieu, and set out on his return to Quebec.